


Midnight Train to Georgia

by blue_fjords



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Reverse Big Bang Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-20
Updated: 2012-07-20
Packaged: 2017-11-10 09:18:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/464675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_fjords/pseuds/blue_fjords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is a dream ninja, trying to save his land. Eames is his favorite dreamer over There. With guest appearances by Yusuf, the mad scientist between the worlds, Ariadne, Arthur's apprentice, Cobb, a dreamer over Here, Fischer, an office drone, and Saito, an explorer with an interesting theory. Loosely inspired by Roald Dahl's "The BFG."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midnight Train to Georgia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aredblush](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aredblush/gifts).



> Written for the Inception Reverse Big Bang. Many thanks to my awesome betas, dizzzylu and kriari. All mistakes are my own! Cheers and cartwheels for the amazing artwork go to aredblush. Check it out here: [awesome art](http://aredblush.dreamwidth.org/86835.html).

His feet touch the ground, sending up puffs of ash and tired dirt. Five, six paces, darting between the reaching dead limbs of burnt trees, and then it's just a running leap from the top of the boulder that juts out over what once was a lake before he's sliding through the scree toward the lowest point of the lakebed. There's an incongruous flash of red before him, a winking bright light, and he's falling, tumbling head over heels through inky blackness.

His hands close around the red, the soft wool of a scarf, and then they're landing together, rolling across the floor to be stopped by the hard oak of a workbench, arriving in an undignified splay of limbs and gasping laughter.

"You split your skull on my floor, I will not weep for you," Yusuf says mildly, not bothering to look up from his beakers and the display of test tubes before him.

Ariadne laughs, cheeks flushed, and tries to straighten her clothes, tug the scarf back. Arthur merely rolls his eyes at Yusuf. It may be new to Ariadne, but it's an old joke, one which has lost any humor it ever possessed to become something that is said by rote. They have no skulls here, not really, and the stone floor of the workshop exists in too many places to be real anywhere.

"Aren't you going to say something about my scarf?" Ariadne asks, moving into Yusuf's personal space, unconcerned about her reception.

"It is very… red," Yusuf says absently, and swirls the liquid in a test tube. It immediately darkens from pastel to forest green. "Uh oh."

Arthur reaches forward and drags Ariadne back just before the tube shatters, sending up acrid green smoke. All three of them cough and wipe tears from their eyes.

"My apologies," Yusuf wheezes. "That was from a couple of dreams Nash brought me."

"Nash doesn't do research," Arthur says sharply. "We're lucky you didn't blow us all up!"

"I –. Well, yes, that's true. Enough dwelling on the past!" Yusuf rubs his hands together, disregarding the shard of glass nestled in his dark curls, the slight green tinge to his shirt. "Are you ready? Destinations in mind?"

Ariadne nods, eyes wide, and licks her lips. It's all still new to her, and she's a quick study, but a dream exploding in your face is enough to throw anyone off their game for a moment or two. Arthur gives her a reassuring smile and squeezes her hand.

"47 Mockingbird Lane, Bloomfield, Connecticut," Ariadne says, her voice steady. Arthur nods approvingly. Kids make good dreams, and they're willing to share. It's not like stealing at all when you go to a kid. They're full of dreams.

Yusuf types the address into his keyboard and hands Ariadne an unbroken test tube full of purple-y silver liquid. Her body shimmers and disappears; the last things to fade are her big brown eyes over the red scarf.

"Huh," Yusuf says. "Was that scarf red?"

"Observant as always," Arthur says with a hint of a smile. He can't help but be proud. A _red_ scarf! It's a little amazing, red back in their world.

"Humph. The usual for you, I presume?"

Arthur tips back the test tube and swallows. His entire body tingles, starting in his throat and spreading to the tips of his toes. Yusuf fades from view and suddenly there's a lurch around Arthur's midsection and he's flying through a dark field filled with millions of tiny sparkling lights. And there, filling his vision and rising up to swallow him whole, is the dream of one Charles Eames.

Eames, for that is how he refers to himself, dreams in plots.

Arthur touches down lightly in the middle of a savannah. Long grasses stretch for as far as his eyes can see, dotted here and there by short trees, trunks twisted from the winds. Gazelle are feeding peaceably nearby. The hum of insects lies thick in the air. Arthur inhales deeply. This is perfect; he can just imagine this grass reseeding his world and these animals there, graceful and fast. Really fast. They're running and leaping, sunlight flashing on their long horns and finally Arthur can see why.

Eames is chasing them.

He's some kind of giant cat, with the bulky muscles and flowing mane of a male lion, the speed of a cheetah and the powerful body and sleek black fur of a panther. No wonder the herd of gazelle are scattering. Arthur watches with avid curiosity as Eames chooses his prey and pounces.

There's blood, arcing in an arterial spray, dripping from the Eames-cat's massive jaws and sharp teeth. Arthur creeps forward, repulsed and fascinated at the same time. The Eames-cat looks up from his feast and tilts his head in a very human gesture.

"You again," he says in a rumbly British accent.

Arthur freezes, then leaps into the air, following a strand of sunlight up out of the dream and into the field of star-like dreams to Yusuf's lab. When he touches down, breathless, bits of Eames' dream are clinging to him. He rests on a stool in a corner while Yusuf exclaims over the savannah setting, the warm sunlight, the graceful gazelles.

It's a good dream.

***

The people of Here need dreams. Arthur remembers when they still dreamed, but Ariadne is too young to know what it was like. Here for her has always been gray and dank, with brief patches of light and wonder – the remnants of dreams. Arthur found her wearing a pale lilac scarf and growing mango trees and kumquats into houses beside a creek in a pocket of life, and recruited her right then. Despite not knowing how, Ariadne dreams. She follows Arthur eagerly into There, and brings back new things for Here – rivers of chocolate, warm wooly sweaters, graceful arches and soaring bridges. Yusuf collects them all and boils them down into dreams for Here.

"If you can dream it, you can make it real."

One of Cobb's sayings, but it is a double-edged sword. Arthur used to travel There with Cobb, when dreaming was a curiosity and nothing had to be taken back to keep Here alive. Before Mal.

He carefully pockets the test tube containing elements from Eames' dream and falls back into Here.

Cobb sleeps in an abandoned building in the middle of a ghost town. Wind howls through gaping holes that once featured beautiful stained glass in fanciful designs, and sand gathers in empty door frames. Arthur flits from shadow to shadow on noiseless feet. There are monsters that prowl the edges of the town, monsters made of smoke and dust. They're held back, just barely, by Cobb. Cobb's still enough of himself that he can do that for his most loyal friend.

The wind dies to a soft susurration once Cobb's home comes into view. It used to be a toy factory, full of magic and wonder. Arthur remembers the clash of colors, the thuds and squeaks from machines and mechanized playthings, the smell of wood and oil and sugar. It's like pouring lemon juice on a gaping wound for Cobb to stay here, but he does. Arthur climbs the rickety stairs, leaping easily over the broken steps, to what once was Dr. Miles' office, with its view of the entire floor of the toy factory, and goes still.

A dragonfly hovers in the air above the sleeping Cobb, ignoring the way the man beneath it twitches in his sleep. Arthur holds himself completely immobile, but inside his heart is beating as wildly as the dragonfly's wings. Three nights ago, Eames had dreamed he was a boy again, running through a field, chasing dragonflies. The tall grass had swayed in the wind of his passage, dancing to the tune of his laughter, some stalks bending with his footsteps, some stalks green and tender and surprisingly soft as they brushed past his face. The sun burned incandescent orange in the cloudless sky and everything had smelled of life, clean and pure. The entire scene had left Arthur transfixed, so much so that he had nearly forgot to pull out his jar and capture one perfect dragonfly, one lungful of the sunshine and laughter infused air.

That same dragonfly flits to the edge of the crumbled office and dives. Arthur tracks it with his eyes. Maybe it's just his imagination, but he thinks he can see it spreading a bit of golden sunshine in its wake as it passes over the factory floor.

The sound of labored breathing draws Arthur's attention back to Cobb. Arthur kneels hurriedly beside the other man and draws out the vial Yusuf had prepared. He carefully tips it into Cobb's half-open mouth and helps him swallow. Cobb stops thrashing and muttering to himself, but Arthur sits in the corner of the ruined office and guards his dreams anyhow.

***

Eames wakes when his alarm goes off. Cheeky bugger, he's been meaning to replace it, but it's a Garfield one he found at a flea market a year ago. It looks just like the one he had when he was a kid. That one had died in a fit of pique after erroneously going off on a Saturday.

Eames is an office drone for Kobol Corporation. He gets up every morning at 6:30 and rushes around to sit and wait on public transportation for his hour commute into the Big City. Today is a Wednesday, which means Eames is wearing a charcoal gray suit and muted blue tie, the same as Monday, and Tuesday, and Thursday, and Friday. Colorful murals speed by his window as he travels underground to his office building. They're beautiful, but so hard to see. Modern art adorns the elevators on the north side of the building, and nature photography resides in the elevators on the south side. Eames blinks at a puma as he rises twenty-nine floors to his cubicle. The company slogan greets him the moment the elevator doors open – _Kobol Corporation: You work hard for your money. We'll make your money work hard for you._

On this particular Wednesday, Eames is distracted. He flexes his fingers above his keyboard, and imagines they're claws. It's a silly thought. He sighs and gets to work. Still, there's a slight prickling along the back of his neck, like someone is watching him. He rises in a half crouch to peer over the walls of his cubicle. 

To his left, Robert Fischer is already on the phone, talking in his soft, calm voice to a customer.

"Yes, we specialize in that kind of virtual vacation. I assure you, the moment you enter the reality, you will cease to recall your husband has passed away and he will appear exactly as you want him."

Fischer doesn't spare him a glance. On Eames's other side, Saito is staring intently at his computer screen. He looks completely focused on filling out his TPP report, but Eames can see he's really playing a game of Bejeweled.

Eames has been getting this feeling a lot lately. On the rare occasions he makes it outside during the daylight hours, he spends half the time peering over his shoulder. Saito has started to tease him about looking for a mystery admirer. 

The thing is, Saito isn't half wrong. Eames doesn't feel threatened by this sensation. He's curious. Who's been watching him? The man of his dreams? The thought makes him smirk. He's never actually _seen_ a man there, but the feeling of being watched increases tenfold. His dream lover must be a shy stalker.

Eames shrugs and turns his attention to the file Fischer also has open on his screen. Eames hums under his breath as he begins to input coding to create a virtual husband for their new client.

***

Eames has been creating virtual realities for wealthy patrons for the past six years. Kobol Corp. used to be a brick and mortar engineering company, but after the Blight, they began exploring other avenues of development in order to stay relevant. Eames got in on the ground floor of what he calls virtual zombies. Not everyone can create a believable copy of a real human being, a deceased lover or parent or child. It's interesting work, and he's very good at it, but sometimes he sits in his cubicle in the middle of the twenty-ninth floor and remembers what it was like to actually travel through the world and meet real people. It's not that the world is dying; it's that the people have forgotten how to live.

On weekends, Eames goes to one (or many) of dozens of bars and has forgettable conversations with men and women who all look alike. There's something missing in his life, an itch just under his skin that only abates when he's dreaming.

It started almost a year ago, this strange relief, and it directly corresponds with the first time Eames felt The Presence. He (and Eames is sure it's a male, has always thought of it as 'him') creeps along the periphery, watching, waiting, and Eames should feel unsettled, but he doesn't. No, the Presence is a challenge, a tease. Eames has been patiently biding his time, though soon, very soon, he's going to turn the tables on him and catch The Presence in the act. Soon.

Every Wednesday (and Monday and Tuesday and Thursday, but not Friday, those days they eat alone, trying to cram in everything that did not get done throughout the week into one last day), Eames breaks for lunch with Saito and Fischer. They eat in a large cafeteria on the twelfth floor. Sunlight streams in through floor to ceiling panels. The streets are too full of skyscrapers to allow for actual sunlight on such a low floor.

On this Wednesday, Saito has brought a file with him to their typical table. Images move quickly across his tablet, followed by rapid-fire text.

"Hold up, go back," Eames says, interrupting Fischer's story, something about a beautiful woman picking him up in a bar the other night. "What are you working on, Saito?"

Saito launches into an explanation, something about virtual realities and how they tie into dreams. Eames feels his pulse quicken as he pulls the tablet toward him.

"What kind of experiment is this? Are these – you're the test subject?" Eames asks.

"Dream science?" Fischer snorts. "You're not going to find any other willing test subjects."

Eames is not so sure. Dreams are fascinating things, and ever since the Blight, dreams have been the last refuge for people like him. In dreams, Eames can go places, see things, meet people in a way that all their technology has not managed to do with virtual reality. Dreams are pure creation. Eames has managed to create a dream man, after all, albeit one that won't talk to him.

"So you think, what, in a dream we can create an entire virtual reality, without the aid of computers or technology, and then – what happens to it? What makes it not a dream?" Eames eyes Saito sharply. What he is talking about could run them out of business. What he is talking about is the most interesting thing Eames has heard in years.

"Hmmm, virtual?" Saito gives an enigmatic smile. "Or a pathway to another reality entirely?"

Fischer laughs. "That's good, Saito. You almost had me going there for a minute. Hey, did I tell you–?"

His cell rings, and he makes a face before answering. Judging by the immediate furrow in his brow, it's his father. Eames takes advantage of his distraction to look more closely at Saito's tablet. Or he tries to, as Saito gently wrests it away again and closes the program.

"It is merely an experiment."

"But you think it could work, don't you? You think there's someplace else to find."

Saito does not answer him, and Fischer is soon off the phone and has a pinched look to his face. Eames launches into a story of his latest late night to take Fischer’s mind off his father, and soon all three are in good spirits and sweeping up the crumbs of their lunches. But the idea percolates in the back of Eames' mind all day until he falls asleep that night – if there are other places, other worlds out there, perhaps it's possible that his dream man is made of flesh and blood, and not just dreams.

***

Arthur takes one cautious step forward. He should leave, should never have stayed, once the dream became a nightmare. There's no need for nightmares in the Here. But he's been watching Eames for so long, it would feel like a betrayal to leave him to his personal demons. Arthur creeps steadily closer. An unseen twig snaps beneath his foot, and he freezes, face flaming. He never gives himself away. Too late comes the realization that he is now part of Eames' dream, instead of his customary post of unseen observer (thief).

The faceless people are still circling around Eames, blank and drab. As they get closer, the woods fade away and only a dingy gray canvas is left. It occurs to Arthur that what Eames fears most is … nothingness. He kneels down, outside their circle, and presses his hands to the ground. He may not be a natural at this, like Cobb or Ariadne, but Eames deserves his best effort. When he steps away, an oak tree rises slowly into the air.

It does the trick. The faceless people fade away when they turn to look at the tree, leaving just Eames, staring across at Arthur with his mouth open.

There are so many things Arthur wants to say, but the words get stuck in his throat, and he flushes again, unused to being at a loss for words. Eames does not have that problem.

"I knew you were real!" he exclaims. He's standing right in front of Arthur, without having moved. "Why are you watching me? Why don't you ever talk to me? What's your name? Where are you from?"

There are too many questions, and Arthur wants to flee. As if sensing it, Eames reaches out and grabs his wrist. Another flicker, and they're laying side by side beneath the branches of the oak tree.

As far as Arthur knows, no one from Here has ever actually spoken to anyone from There.

Eames' face is a scarce handsbreadth from his own. Arthur can count his eyelashes, can read the expectation in Eames' eyes. And something else.

"Why are you lonely?" Arthur blurts out, recognizing now the emotion lurking in Eames' eyes, for he's seen it mirrored in his own so frequently since Mal died and Cobb just… stopped.

"What if I say it's because I've been waiting for you to come and talk to me?" Eames says. He sounds charming. He _is_ charming, and he dreams charmed dreams. "You didn't answer any of my questions," Eames reminds him.

"It's… I didn't know I could talk to you," Arthur says defensively.

"You never imagined it?"

Of course he wants to. Eames is fascinating. Each dream is completely unique, unfolding for Arthur in a way none other has before, like he is _meant_ to experience them and take a piece with him. He wants to ask Eames about the creatures that inhabit his dreams, the flowers and trees in colors he can barely remember from Before, the buildings of impossible beauty. And he wonders about Eames' life, too. Is he a prince, to have such richness in his mind, or a poor man, dreaming of a better life? Now he can ask. Now he can thank him.

"I like your dreams," Arthur says haltingly. That doesn't even begin to cover what Eames' dreams have meant to him, but it's a start.

"I like seeing you in them," Eames says with a grin. Arthur blushes.

"Is everyone from There so…" He waves his hand in the air, and if anything, Eames' grin grows wider.

"Nope. I'm the only one. What do you mean, There?"

"As opposed to Here."

"Um."

"Um."

Eames reaches out and touches Arthur's face. "You feel real to me. You are real, right?"

"I'm as real as you!" Arthur says, affronted.

"Hey, I meant no offense," Eames says easily. His thumb brushes over Arthur's cheekbone. "Tell me about Here. Why are _you_ lonely?"

How can he possibly explain the dreariness of Here to someone who dreams in light? Arthur should pull away, but there's that spark in Eames' eyes again and instead he finds himself being pulled into a loose embrace as he says, "Everything I love is dying, and I try and try, but I can't stop it."

***

After their first meeting, Eames finds himself dreaming of the oak tree every night for a week. Arthur meets him beneath the spreading branches, and they talk, sometimes of inconsequential things, and sometimes confessing secrets. Eames brings Arthur to places that don’t exist anymore; or more accurately, only exist in the minds of dreamers. One night it’s Medieval Europe and they wear chainmail and ride the backs of dragons, another night it’s Ancient Egypt and they build an entire pyramid in the course of a night while Eames tries to teach Arthur drinking songs, and another it’s the Grand Canyon. Eames supposes that still exists, though he doesn’t know of anyone who has visited it since the Blight. Eames doesn’t speak of the Blight, preferring to grill Arthur about his home.

"So… our dreams here, which is your There, provide, what, regeneration? Over there, your Here. That's it in a nutshell, yeah?"

They are back beneath their oak and are lying on their backs, looking up at the blue, blue sky through the leaves. Arthur can hear the hum of tiny insects and the distant chirping of birds. It's peaceful in a way Eames' dreams seldom are.

"That's it, _generally_." Arthur doesn't usually feel guilty for stealing from people's dreams. He only takes a pinch, after all – a daisy from one, a toy train from another. Eames is the exception.

"You're like a ninja, stealing people's dreams."

Arthur sits up abruptly. "It's not _really_ thievery. Most people don't even remember their dreams."

“Hey, I’m not blaming you, relax, Arthur,” Eames says lazily. He’s chewing a long stalk of grass between his teeth and has long since taken off his shirt to form it into a pillow for his head. He looks the very definition of indolence, Arthur decides. He watches, fascinated, as a bead of sweat trickles down Eames’ neck to pool in the dip of his collarbone. He has a strange urge to lick it away.

“I should get back,” Arthur says, closing his eyes.

“Like hell you should,” Eames drawls. His hand closes around Arthur’s wrist, tugging him back down until Arthur is splayed across his chest, Arthur’s face mashed against a tattoo. “Stay here. Tell me a story.”

“A story?” Arthur’s voice is muffled by Eames’ skin and he raises his head in an attempt to get leverage. It only affords him a view to Eames’ wide smile.

“A story. Of the first dream you did not _really_ burgle. Well?”

Arthur doesn’t want to revisit that time from Before, when it had been Cobb and Mal and Arthur, three intrepid explorers. They had still thought they only needed a bandage then; just a few harmless dreams from There and then Here would be all patched up. Instead Mal had fallen and Cobb never recovered.

But Eames is smiling at him, and his hand is in Arthur’s hair and last night Eames had told him he’d never felt closer to another soul. Arthur can manage one story to keep that smile on Eames’ face.

“Okay,” he says slowly, “okay. The first one was from Queen Elizabeth--”

“What?!” Eames startles beneath him and accidentally bites off the end of his stalk of grass.

“Shhh. Don’t interrupt.”

Eames is laughing softly as he settles back down, pulling Arthur flush against his chest. Arthur can feel the rumble of each chuckle as he tells his story of three ninjas, scaling walls and hanging from ropes, reaching into the queen’s dream for a third-favorite tiara, the soft touch of dog fur and the taste of a crumpet. Eames teases him about the ropes, but knows instinctively not to ask about Cobb and Mal. Arthur loves him a little for it. 

***

He's late to Yusuf's lab. Ariadne has long since come and gone, but Arthur rested in the shade of the oak tree for hours, talking. In the end, the only piece of dream he has with him is the memory of the oak tree.

"Time is fluid," Yusuf says when Arthur finally opens the door, "But you're still late."

"Time well spent," Arthur replies, and pulls the essence of the oak tree out of his coat pocket.

"I'll be the judge of that," Yusuf mutters. "Ariadne brought me candy floss, as if anyone needs candy floss! She should have aimed for fish and chips, with extra – holy shit, Arthur, you smell like over There!"

Yusuf's eyes are wide, focused with scary intensity on Arthur's face. His knuckles have turned pale where they are gripped around the flask containing the oak tree essence. Arthur takes a step back from him, Yusuf's eyes tracking his movements.

"I—"

"No, sorry, no denials," Yusuf interrupts him. "It was your Eames, wasn't it? You went into his dream, and you’ve been talking to him!"

"Sounds to me like you don't need me for this conversation," Arthur says, bristling at Yusuf's tone even as his heart does a strange flip-flop at the thought of Eames being his.

"Fine, fine, go break all the rules, see if I care!" Yusuf harrumphs, banging beakers together as he mixes a dream with a bit too much force. "I'm just the dream maker, what do I know? Just the only one that's Here and There, ignore me!"

"Yusuf—"

"Bugger off!" He stoppers a beaker and hands over the dream for Cobb, the liquid swirling wildly. "Just you wait, Arthur – he's going to trap you over There. Selfish bastards, they are. Now shoo!"

***

Cobb, surprisingly, is awake when Arthur makes it to the abandoned toy factory, his thoughts a jumble in his head and his emotions riding a particularly twisty rollercoaster. Cobb regards him calmly.

"Ah."

"Ah?" Arthur asks. "This is the first time you've been awake in months, and all I get is an 'ah'?"

"Ah, you smell funny. Is that better?" Cobb asks mildly. He must have just woken from a dream Nash got for him; they have always bored Arthur to tears.

"I talked to someone from There," Arthur says, hands on his hips. "Are you going to lecture me about it, too?"

Cobb goes still. "Arthur, you smell like... I remember what that was like... are you in love?"

"Of course not!"

Cobb sighs. "Arthur, as the recipient of your dreams, I think I have more authority on the subject of your feelings than you."

Arthur sputters, but Cobb continues, relentless.

"All of the dreams you have brought me for the past year have borne the same aura. They're from the same person, someone you feel warmly towards. So. Have you been in love with this person for the past year?"

"Yusuf says it's against the rules to talk to people from over There," Arthur says, finding his voice. It comes out small, much to his chagrin.

"Yusuf makes up the rules according to his own whimsy. There are no rules. Other than don't go mad with grief and poison Here," Cobb finishes, with a self deprecating smile. Arthur has never heard him joke about his situation.

"You're taking this very lightly," Arthur says.

"You take love too seriously, and it can eat you up and spit you out. Haven't I provided a perfect case study for that?" Cobb nods to the flask in Arthur's hand. "Is that from your dreamer?"

"Eames," Arthur says, speaking the name like it's a gift he's willing to share with Cobb, his oldest friend, his damaged friend.

"Eames," Cobb repeats. "Time is fluid," and Arthur is struck with a sense of déjà vu. "He might be sleeping again right now. What are you going to do about it?"

***

Yusuf's and Cobb's words are still echoing in Arthur's head when he tumbles into Eames' dream. It's a different sort of dream, warmer and darker than Eames usually dreams, and the air tastes like oranges and spices. Arthur has to push his way through a tropical forest to find Eames, and when he does, his feet become rooted to the spot.

Eames is naked in the clearing and he's not alone. A dream Arthur is naked beneath him, both of their bodies slick and gleaming in the strange light of the dream. As Arthur watches, paralyzed, Eames begins to speak to Arthur’s dream self, words too low to make out. When Eames touches the dream Arthur, dragging a knuckle lightly over dream Arthur's jaw before cupping his cheek, a roaring fills Arthur’s ears and he takes a staggering step back.

The desire is overwhelming, to physically touch and feel. This isn’t Eames’ wish alone, Arthur can realize that now, admit it by stepping forward and taking what they both want. He blinks, concentrating, and when he opens his eyes, there is no more dream Arthur, just him. His lips meet Eames', his hand is splayed across Eames' lower back.

"Eames," he murmurs, "I'm here."

Eames pulls away enough to look him in the eye.

"Arthur? You – I'm sorry –"

"I'm not."

Arthur pushes him back against the sheets and mouths at his tattoos. Eames tastes and feels more intense than anything Arthur has ever experienced, the noises he makes amplified in Arthur's ears and making his blood boil. He has to close his eyes to maintain some form of sanity. Eames tugs on his neck and their mouths meet. Arthur is drowning in the sensation. His hand finds Eames' and he hangs on tight, riding the waves of pleasure, again and again until he falls asleep in the dream.

***

Eames blinks his eyes the next morning, still seeing double the third time he does it. The world slowly rights itself and he becomes aware of a few pressing concerns – he needs to pee, his sheets are a sticky mess, and there is another presence in his head. He scratches at dried come on his stomach as he turns that one over in his mind. He's not alone in doing so. Emotions are bombarding him from what he's sure is Arthur: panic, chagrin, anger.

"Before you say anything," Eames says out loud, "I have no idea how this happened."

It's the strangest feeling: his inner Arthur takes a deep breath and orients himself as Eames shambles into the bathroom to take a piss and start the shower. It's a Saturday. The day stretches before him, unplanned. Despite the oddness of their current situation, Eames feels a little thrill of joy to have Arthur so close to him. He hopes Arthur can detect it.

"You calmed down at all?" he asks, stepping beneath the hot spray.

"Can't you feel me?" Arthur's tone is acerbic, but Eames can tell the panic has lessened somewhat, at least.

"Yeah, and you're still in a strop. I repeat: _I did not do this_."

There's a pause as Arthur assesses him for sincerity, and damn if that doesn't feel weird. "I don't like feeling trapped," Arthur says finally.

"And I would never trap you," Eames says sharply. "Arthur. You travel from world to world. That's amazing. I would never trap you in one place. I'm not a monster!"

"You're not," Arthur agrees. "I didn't mean to imply… I was warned."

"Warned? Of what? By who?"

"About getting trapped here." Arthur doesn't divulge any more information, and apparently this emotion sharing thing they have going doesn't also share thoughts, because Eames doesn't hear anything else.

"All right then, we can agree that we need to free you," Eames says, scrubbing shampoo out of his hair. “If I just fall asleep and have a dream, that should do it.”

“Maybe,” Arthur says doubtfully. “We should try to do a little research on this thing.”

“But it’s not so bad -- temporarily! -- hanging out in my head, is it?” He hopes Arthur can't figure out the emotion he's trying to disguise, that he wants more than anything for Arthur to stay.

“Considering what else we’ve done in your head, I can honestly say that if I’m not in my own, yours is the next best option.”

Eames doesn’t bother to hide his reaction to that. Tension leaks out of him, to be replaced with something he can only describe as warmth.

Breakfast takes a while. Arthur is fascinated by Eames' collection of sugary cereals and wants to read the backs of all of them. Then Arthur becomes captivated by Eames' options for Saturday casual wear. Eames preens before he detects a note of incredulity at some of his fashion choices. He goes with paisley and corduroy just because he can. 

He thinks they'll have more luck finding information on dream realities at work (though honestly, Eames has no idea what they're doing, and is really hoping to raid Saito’s desk instead) and Eames hops onto the subway like he usually does five days a week. Arthur asks questions about the people on the subway car, and Eames thinks the answers back to him. It works out well for a while, but eventually, Arthur goes quiet in his head. Eames can pick up on the sentiment anyhow. Arthur's uncomfortable, but it's a different kind of uncomfortableness from what Eames could feel from him at first. Finally he has enough of it and sends a thought to him as they ride up the elevator to Eames's floor.

"What's got your panties in a twist?"

Now Arthur is startled and a trifle defensive. "I'm not wearing anything twisted," he says tartly.

"Well, then? Why are you so upset? Better out than in, I always say." Which is true, Eames does always say this, but he applies it strictly to other people. Sharing and caring is not for him.

"You're a very contradictory person," Arthur mutters, and Eames really needs to keep in mind that, just as he can feel Arthur's emotions and sincerity, Arthur can feel his.

"Sorry about that," Eames thinks to him. He can feel Arthur sigh in return.

"It's just… all your dreams are so…" Eames braces himself for a condemning statement, especially after last night's dream, but Arthur surprises him. "Your dreams are beautiful. Amazing, so full of life, but here – there aren't even windows. The ads on the train are all about going to see nature, but there isn't any around you. How do you dream of it?"

Eames taps his fingers against the wall of the elevator. "Well, there was... when I was a kid this was, a kind of virus developed, we called it the Blight. A lot of people got sick. Antibiotics didn't work and it took a long time to fight it off, and we still don't know how it started, or how it spread. So people just stopped traveling places. Kind of like the Black Plague, I don't know if you know about that, if that's part of your history. But it was much more civilized, though, well, still a lot of death. And now if people want to travel, they do it virtually. Which is how I make my money."

Arthur's emotions flitted by too quickly for Eames to read them as he was speaking, but now he gets an overwhelming sense of sadness from him.

"I'm—"

"Hey. You don't have to say anything. Look, it's my floor." He steps out into the sea of cubicles.

"Eames?"

"I know. This place is a bit dodgy, really."

"Could we go outside instead? Just for a bit?"

Eames looks at the drab gray walls, dotted with the occasional garish poster depicting teamwork and good listening skills.

"Fuck this. Let's see the sun."

***

They go to a park and watch kids running and tripping, until Eames feels the cops are going to get called on the man watching kids and talking to himself. He gets an ice cream and savors it slowly, getting turned on by Arthur appreciating him appreciating the ice cream. He ducks into a public library and down to the stacks to beat off, and walks jauntily back into a crowd, Arthur laughing in his head. He takes Arthur to an art museum to see portraits of long-dead rich people. Arthur finds it fascinating. Eames wonders if there are anymore stacks nearby.

Everywhere they go, Eames sees things he’s never seen before, as if Arthur has loosened the blinders he’s had in place since the Blight. There _is_ beauty in the There; you just have to look hard to find it amongst all the industrial gray.

He stays awake as long as he can that night, trying to hold on to Arthur just in case, and takes Arthur up to the roof of his apartment building. There are some stars out, barely visible in the light pollution from the Big City. He points them out to Arthur and eventually drifts off to Arthur’s low voice in his head, comparing the display to a field of dreams. Eames has questions, he does, but then he’s in a dream, Arthur beside him, and the questions can wait.

They’re in the museum courtyard again, naked on the grass, the sun beating down and slicking their bodies with sweat. Eames is laughing, downright giddy with joy, his head thrown back, when his eye snags on another person invading their dream, a petite young woman with huge brown eyes and an absurdly long red scarf wrapped several times around her shoulders. Arthur follows his gaze and gives a start of recognition.

"Ariadne!" he says. "What is she doing here?"

"Indulging a voyeuristic fantasy?" Eames suggests flippantly, but the joy is seeping out of him. Her presence bodes ill, and he doesn’t need for Arthur to be in his head for him to get that. He’s standing, clothed, a second later. Arthur rises next to him, brushing invisible dust from his own suit. "My dear Ariadne," Eames says, walking up to her. "Arthur told me who you are."

"Arthur? Who's that? He's been gone so long, I think I've forgotten."

Eames gets a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, but that's nothing compared to the agitation that is practically rolling off Arthur.

"It wasn't Arthur's fault!" Eames says quickly.

"So it's yours?" she asks.

Eames takes a step back. She's a spitfire, and he has no qualms about retreating in the face of her diminutive form.

"Not mine, either. We have no idea how it happened. And what do you mean, 'so long'? He hasn't even been gone a full day!"

"Try two years. We're falling apart, Arthur. Cobb is falling apart."

“No!” Arthur gasps, his voice choked by guilt and pain. Eames hears it like a knife to his heart.

"Time is fluid," Ariadne continues, relentless. "Don't you remember that? Don't you want to come back?"

"He does, he does!" Eames tries to say, but he's falling, weighed down by Arthur's terrifying desperation. He can just feel a hint of something like regret directed at him before his dream goes completely dark.

He wakes up alone on the rooftop, feeling hollow.

***

It's a Friday, and they never eat lunch together on Fridays. But Eames corners Saito at his desk, using his muscular frame to block the other man in. Saito raises his eyebrows. His expression is calm, unconcerned, and Eames knows he has no real power here, nothing to bargain with other than his own desperation. It's been over a week with no dreams, no Arthur. He may be acting like a lovesick fool, but his life here is dull and drab without those two things.

"Your experiment," he says, going with the blunt approach. "Do you think it works?"

"It is an untried experiment," Saito answers. "Purely theoretical."

"But it _could_ work," Eames persists. "If there are two realities…"

"Then there should be a door, yes. Do you agree?" Saito waits, unfazed, as if he hadn't just said the most ridiculous thing ever, as if he could solve Eames's problem for him before lunch, and then go on to cure a disease before supper.

Of all the people in the world, Eames thinks, he is the only one who could honestly answer yes. This place, this one world, the only one he's ever known – surely, surely if he can dream of another, he can go there. He wants to see it, wants to open that door and look inside.

"How do I get there?" He answers the question with another question.

Saito's lips turn up, just a fraction. It is the closest thing Eames has ever seen to him smile.

"When I was a young boy," Saito starts, "my family lived in the shadow of a mountain. My grandfather called it the Mountain Between Worlds. Everyone else called it The Sleeping Giant. One summer, my grandfather and I hiked up its slopes farther than we had ever gone before. A terrible storm came up out of nowhere. I slipped, and tumbled down a ravine. My grandfather yelled to me, told me to stay put, but I was cold and wet and scared. I took shelter in a small cabin." Saito pauses. Eames glances over his shoulder. No one is paying them the slightest attention, but still, he leans closer, trying to look casual about it.

"Inside the cabin," Saito continues in a whisper, "I met a mad scientist. He sat me down in front of his fire and gave me a steaming cup of tea. As I drank it, he asked me many questions. I was a shy boy, and would not answer, but he just smiled and kept asking. When I was done with my tea, the scientist thanked me and pointed to a beaker in his lab."

"'What does that smell like?' the scientist asked me. I would not answer, but I can tell you now. It smelled like the rug in my grandfather's study, which I spent many afternoons napping upon. It smelled like my grandfather's ink, and my mother's perfume, and my grandmother's soup and my father's closet of freshly laundered suits. It smelled like everything that made me think of home and safety. And I had not said a word."

Eames' hands are tight around the edges of Saito's desk.

"I heard my grandfather calling me then. I looked down at my cup of tea, gathering the courage to ask for another for my grandfather, but when I looked up, the scientist and his lab were gone, the fireplace looked as if it hadn't been used in a very long time. I ran outside to tell my grandfather, but when I grabbed his hand to pull him to the cabin, it had disappeared."

Saito rolls his chair back and reaches into his desk drawer. "For years, I hunted for that cabin. I never found it again. My grandfather is the only one who has ever believed my story. I stopped telling it, but I still kept looking. Whenever I doubt myself, I pull out my teacup," Eames' eyes widen as Saito pulls out a battered teacup from his desk drawer, brandishing it with a look of deep satisfaction on his face, "and then I am assured. There is another world, and I have been to the door between this one and ours. Perhaps, Eames, you shall be lucky enough to find it and even cross the threshold. If you do, please thank the scientist for his tea. I never did tell him so."

***

Eames takes a week of vacation time and buys a ticket to Saito's homeland. He has hiking boots, a tent, maps, MRE's, long underwear and a compass. He has never been hiking before in his life. He hasn't been on a plane since he was a child. It's just him, with all his hiking gear, and a dozen businessmen and women in their suits, clutching their briefcases and breathing through their fluorescent blue face masks. They eye him askance and Eames gives them a shit-eating grin while flipping the bird.

The first night, he sleeps at the foot of the mountain, beneath the stars. The tent had proved as rambunctious as a two-year-old, and Eames prefers the stars anyway. He'll stop earlier tomorrow and try again with the aid of sunlight. When he wakes, he remembers wisps of a dream and breathes easier than he has since that day in the museum courtyard. The next night he makes a pitiful fire, but does manage to get the tent up. Not staked properly, however, and he tumbles around a bit when a strong wind starts up overnight.

The third day is absolutely miserable, wind blowing and ice forming tiny crystals in his thick stubble as he fights his way ever upward. Then he stops for the night and has the worst nightmare of his life. This time, there is no Arthur to fight off the demons who plague him, and Eames finally wakes, shaken and shivering. He doesn't sleep for the rest of the night.

So it is that Eames is sleep-deprived and aching the next day and would have missed the cabin if he hadn't practically fallen against it. His hands are shaking, and not just from the cold, when he pushes the door open. It's a bare cabin, filled with nothing but dust and cobwebs. Eames could cry with frustration. Instead he shuffles over to the fireplace and builds a fire using the detritus of the cabin as his tinder. Slowly, he begins to thaw and his eyelids begin to droop.

"You used Nash's copy of 'An Ethical Guide to Dream Thievery' to make your fire," a voice says from close by, causing Eames to jump and flutter his eyelashes open. "No worries on that one; he certainly didn't use it!"

"Who--?" Eames stops, gaping.

The dingy interior of the cabin completely melted away while he slept. In its place is a laboratory, with beakers filled with liquids all the hues of the rainbow, many bubbling away on Bunsen burners. A teapot bounces above a roaring fire in the fireplace, whistling off green steam. Saito's mad scientist kneels in front of Eames, safety goggles pushed up to catch in his dark curls. His apron is stained with dribs and gobs that Eames is very curious about, though after catching a whiff of smoke from a pot on the closest counter top, he changes his mind.

"I'm looking for Arthur," he says. "How long has it been for Arthur? Can you get me to him?" Eames covers his wince. He'd been planning to be much more subtle about his desire to get to Arthur, to test the waters. But he also hadn't been expecting to discover the door between worlds in such a fashion. He's out of his depth here, and he'll cling to a false sense of confidence until he can get his bearings.

"Eames," the scientist says slowly. "Huh. You were able to find me. Yusuf." He holds a plump hand out to shake, and Eames doesn't hesitate to shake it. Yusuf doesn't release his hand.

"Why do you want to find Arthur?" Yusuf asks mildly, but there's just a hint of steel in his grip, in the glint of his eyes. Eames answers truthfully.

"I want to be with him. I'd rather be where he is than be on my own here." He has left himself wide open. It's scary, to take his own advice and let it out, but he's in a magical lab hundreds of miles from anyplace he's ever known. What precisely does he have to lose?

"Hmmm," Yusuf murmurs. "Tea?"

Eames blinks. "Tea would be lovely," he says cautiously.

Yusuf bustles around fixing the tea, and Eames at last gets to his feet. There's a pinboard along one wall of the lab with samples and smears stuck to it, messily labeled things like 'pond scum,' 'candy floss,' 'cerulean' and 'silk knickers.' The fan inside an ancient computer hisses noisily beside the window, which is completely fogged over.

"Here," Yusuf calls. He gestures for Eames to sit at a cramped little table in front of the fire and places two teacups in front of him. Neither match each other, or the cup Saito showed Eames in his cubicle. "The pink cup first." Yusuf watches, beady-eyed, as Eames swallows the tea. "How do you feel?"

"Fairly normal?" Eames raises his eyebrows. Had Yusuf just drugged him? Serves him right, for trusting a stranger. He should go home and die alone. "Suspicious, depressed, angry and lonely?"

"Oh. Um, drink the other one!"

Eames cuts his eyes at Yusuf as he reaches for the second cup. It can't be worse than the first.

It tastes like sunlight and the salt of Arthur's skin and homemade cherry pie. Eames swallows it all down and smacks his lips. "Is there more?"

Yusuf sighs. "Well, sometimes even I'm wrong. Of course there's more. Let me make you a potion."

"Potion instead of tea?"

Yusuf points to the pink cup. "That's tea from There." He points to the second cup. It's white, with a pattern done in pink, green and yellow around the edge. "That's tea from Here. Since you're still alive, and you found this cabin, I'm going to send you off to your Arthur."

Eames' heart begins to pound. "Truly?"

"You won't be able to go back to There, you realize. Are you willing to give that up?"

"Yes," Eames says immediately. He doesn't even have to think about it. Though there is one thing… "Can I leave a message for someone in his dream?"

"If Arthur wants to take you," Yusuf says, mixing liquids and powders. "Who is it?"

"Saito. You gave him tea once when he was a boy. He thanks you for that, by the way, as do I. I want to let him know I made it here."

"A boy did come here once, one hundred years ago." Yusuf pours an emerald green liquid into a test tube for Eames to drink. "If you find his dreams, tell him the door is still open for him."

Eames nods, eyes focusing on the test tube. One drink, and he'll change forever. His hands shake in spite of himself when he takes the tube and throws it back, the liquid at first burning hot, then freezing cold. Yusuf and the lab melt from his vision like a watercolor painting left out in the rain, and then he's Here.

It's dark and gray and ugly, but Eames doesn’t even care. If he could find potential in the There when Arthur was beside him, he’ll be able to Here, too. And now the most beautiful man Eames has ever seen is walking toward him, then running, astonishment and wonder and happiness flitting across his face until he reins in his emotions, coming to a halt an arm’s length from Eames. He doesn’t ask why. He _knows_ the why.

"Eames!" Arthur exclaims. "You're – you're actually _Here_! How--?"

"Yusuf and I thought you might be lonely for my charm and wit and sugary cereal."

Arthur pulls him into a rough embrace. "No, just you, you idiot," he says, voice heavy with affection and too many other emotions to name. Eames holds on tight, burying his face in the curve of Arthur's neck for a moment just to breathe him in again. Arthur finally lets go and takes a step back, only to reach for Eames' hand.

"You know, Arthur," Eames says, surveying the gray landscape, "what this place needs is a little sunlight."

The words are no sooner out of his mouth when the clouds part, and weak sunlight comes filtering down to the ground. Arthur's jaw drops, working noiselessly.

"Huh. Imagine that," Eames says. He tugs Arthur closer, arm sliding around his waist as they begin to walk. Later, they'll discover the lush green grass that sprang up in their footsteps as they walked through Here, and the wildflowers that bloomed when Eames used his free hand to emphasize his point in an anecdote he told Arthur. Later, they'll discover just what happens when someone from There comes into Here and wants to save it for someone he loves. But for now, they're content to simply be, two beings who found each other and won't ever be lonely again.


End file.
